


Laceration

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [12]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vane tells himself that recapturing Abigail is just a bonus. But that doesn't explain why he risks his life to save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laceration

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Two. Written for prompt "L" at LJ's 1_million_words A to Z Challenge.
> 
> * * *

Vane tells himself that he is taking the merchant ship for the spoils she contains, and because after the events of Charles Town his blood and that of his crew still boils for the clash of steel and the running of blood. He tells himself that the prize she contains in the form of Abigail Ashe is but a bonus, and that his goal in the taking of one pale, pitiable girl will be in seeing the look on Eleanor's face when she realizes that not only did her grand scheme of reconciliation fail but that the child she rescued is now broken and despoiled.

None of that explains why he rushed in with a battle cry on his lips when it appeared three of the seamen were about to slit the girl's throat rather than let her be taken by his crew, or suffering the blow to his skull that leaves his head ringing as he lays slouched against the rail, or the deep laceration he took to his chest that pumps thick blood onto the deck with every strangled breath he struggles to take.

All for a pallid slip of a girl.

She drops to her knees beside him, pale hands fluttering, face ashen. "Your wound," she stammers. "I don't…"

Eleanor would take charge, Vane thinks. Get her hands dirty. Abigail bites at her bottom lip and looks as though she may slump at his side, her breaths shallow and harsh near his ear. He lifts a hand that feels far heavier than it should be. "Fetch—" he begins.

But the girl lifts her head, deep brown eyes meeting his and stalling the words on his tongue. Face that was clouded with apprehension looks only determined now, and as he watches she tugs at the flounces on her sleeve, the fabric tearing easily where it had already been ripped in her struggle with the seamen. She folds the makeshift cloth thrice before leaning over him and pressing it onto the wound, and only when he hisses does she raises her head apologetically. "I must apply pressure," she tells him unnecessarily, "to halt the bleeding. I'm sorry that it pains you, Captain."

"Nothing but a flesh wound," he answers when he has his breath back.

Her eyes widen for a moment before she sees the mirth in his, and then she ducks her head to hide the answering amusement in her own. Her lips twitch, and he is opening his mouth to speak again – to see if he can tease an actual smile from a mouth that had always seemed predisposed to anxious frowns – when she pulls the edges of the wound together and all that can emerge from his lips is a startled, pain-filled gasp.

"You need the doctor," Abigail says, her voice coming from far away.

Vane blinks back to full consciousness, pushes past the dark spots clouding his vision. She is looking away from him now, searching the deck of the flagging battle for sign of one of his crew. The sea breeze catches at her unbound hair, and he has to clench his fingers to suppress the urge to reach out and run his fingers into her tangles, to force her attention back to him where it belongs. He presses his lips together in a thin line and his arm strains with the effort of not-touching, and perhaps it is that which makes her turn toward him. 

"You're back," she says, and it is only then that he realizes that the fabric that now covers his wound is torn from her skirt and not her sleeve, and that scraps of blood-soaked material litter the deck at his hip. She scans his face and perfect teeth worry at her lower lip before she repeats, "You need the doctor."

"You could always kiss it better," he rasps out.

She ducks her head, a flush spreading over her cheeks. And Vane knows that he is not as bad off as it seems when his only thought is of the things he could do to her to make that flush spread. How his blood boils to watch it infuse her collarbones and spread over her chest when she learns to what heights deft fingers can bring her. More than her smile, he now wants to watch those perfect lips fall open upon a gasp as he shows her what a man with skill and patience can achieve with a woman who is willing.

Then Abigail lifts her head. Her eyes are a deeper brown than he remembers, dark enough to drown in, and she holds her gaze steady on his as she slowly lowers her face to his chest. Her lips are warm and dry against his skin, and she only drops her eyes when his hand comes up to involuntarily squeeze at the back of her head, tangling in her wind-blown hair and holding her near him for the breadth of several heartbeats. When she rises her breath is coming quicker than it should, her eyes wide and shocked and unblinking.

"Better?" she asks.

Her voice is a rough and raspy gasp, husky with a need that had perhaps gone unrecognized for far too long. The sound of it seems to surprise her and she blinks rapidly, her mouth falling open and the slim pale column of her throat convulsing. He can sense that she wishes to look away but is no more able to turn from him than he is able to stop the corner of his mouth from curling as he takes in the rapid rise and fall of her chest and her wide, startled doe eyes.

He _will_ need the doctor, stitches, rum for the pain, but for now he lifts a hand to her face. She does not falter as his thumb brushes her plump lower lip, smearing away a hint of his blood. Her eyes only fall closed then, her breath a warm sigh over his cold fingers.

"Better," he says.


End file.
